Rapeseed

Back in the day, consent was not a thing. By extension, we are all children of rape. (Great, great, great grandchildren of rape.)

And there is nothing great about that.

I read an article (probably in the New York Times magazine) in recent years that all the suffering and trauma your ancestors went through are in your blood. If your clan has endured generations of tragedy, it's always with you.

In the early 80's, I prolifically read Ni Kuang, one of the most influential authors in Hong Kong who was known for sci-fi sagas. In a particular collection of short stories, the first one featured was titled "Rape".

I was a tween or in my early teens, and immediately captivated.

The rape victim displays your expected PTSD telltale signs: withdrawal, jumpiness, depression...

As the story unfolds, we learn that there has been no physical rape, but a rape of the mind. Constant, daily, inescapable rape that is how society imposes on and fucks with you.

At the time, I snickered. Oh, please. Drama queen. 

As of late, as I feel suffocated and trapped at my current job, hating most minutes of the day, resenting having to do things I don't want to do, don't agree with, don't enjoy doing, cursing that my time is not mine - my life is not mine... Looking forward to 5 o'clock each day, looking forward to the weekend... Until weekends don't even bring joy anymore... Concluding this is no way to live...

Yes, when you have no control over what shit gets shoved your way, what your body must do, even as it aches and burns, muscles inflamed and torn, your being stretched as if racked in medieval times, spread thinner and thinner until you're certain you are going to break, but you don't break, you subsist and writhe on... One more day. And another, and another...

Indeed. I feel raped. Over and over.

Ni Kuang was right all along.